Tightrope Walkers

We have fought since we were tiny. Over barbies, over boys, over the bodies of  grandparents. Once I even threw a remote at my sisters head. I like to think I missed on purpose. We used to share a room and she would shush me when I woke, crying, from my nightmares. Mom came in to comfort me, an angel in the dark.

Since I've moved away, we've been better. On the occasions we see each other, we listen to each other more, we watch for each others scars and avoid them with careful precision.

Both approaching our thirties, we are three states away and starting to tolerate each other. Still, I want to tell her, and I cannot tell her, about the nightmares that wake me now. Because she plays a starring role.

In my dreams we face each other like banshees over a problem we cannot fix. We throw hate around like baseballs, until we cannot see each other for the bruises we've inflicted, until the ugly words we hurl are thick like tar and hold us down, and I watch as the last thing holding us together slips away. I wake feeling like the tightrope I have been walking has snapped beneath me. And I cannot even call her to tell her I am sorry.